This is a reanimation of the Vicaribus blog as lived by Miro Kazakoff and Ehren Foss in 2004 and 2005. The photos may be spotty.

El Rey de Tennessee

Posted by ehren

We maximized our time at the RV park in the morning, charged batteries, took on water, and dumped the tanks. Miro received word from WGBV via Sarah Jane's businesslike voicemail that he had forgotten his cell phone and would be arriving two hours later than expected. According to Miro we were still operating within the realm of best case scenarios. Around 1:45 we started out from Bozeman for Gallatin Field, and though we were early decided to do a pass to see if WGBV could be located. Indeed, he was looking for us at the end of the terminal but hadn't yet retrieved his bag, so we dropped off Miro (with phone) and La Madre and I brought the bus into a holding pattern in the parking lot next to the control tower, and waited for Miro's call.

With WGBV, fly rods, bags, and waders onboard, we drove back to Bozeman for fishing licenses. A consumate storyteller, WGBV jumped right into it "I sat next to the craziest woman I have ever met on the plane today..." Not knowing where else to go, we bought two MT fishing licenses for the two poles at Wal Mart, and were soon on the road to four corners, where we picked up 191-S. The road follows the Gallatin River upstream into a canyon, eventually crossing the continental divide near West Yellowstone.

Around 3 or 3:30 we pulled into a large turnout just after one of the bridges. Armed with only scattershot hunches of locals who looked like they might know something about fly fishing, we figured it was as good a place as any. WGBV, an outdoorsman with several orders of magnitude more experience than the rest of us combined, called all the shots related to fishing, and brought us to a section of the bank overlooking what he hoped was fish-laden waters.

Overhanging foliage offered no room to cast, and the best whorls and rapids were midstream, so we volunteered La Madre to be the first to accompany WGBV to mid river for a fly fishing lesson. Miro and I sat on the bank, swatting flies and reading back issues of The New Yorker magazine which La Madre brought as part of a cultural care package. They failed to land any fish, but the basics of casting and not falling in and being swept away by the current were imparted and Miro took his turn at the same. After about an hour Miro was likewise spent and fishless, so WGBV (blaming the location) guided us upstream to no avail, and then he and I walked over the road and scouted the riverbank farther down. Still, nothing. William is of the opinion that a bad day of fishing is better than a good day doing almost anything else, and I'll agree, given that the whole of our expedition would take place underneath the big, beautiful Montana sky.

Miro prepared dinner, I did dishes, and WGBV caught us up on his DC life, hunting, and efforts to buy handsome land in Virginia. All the while Miro was attempting to guide Pulito to our location. The previous Tuesday he moved to Missoula from Philadelphia to telecommute from finer surroundings. As the evening wore on schedules were adjusted, as Pulito's Buick had started leaking coolant as he nursed it along I-90E towards Bozeman. According to Miro we were still operating within the realm of best case scenarios.

Around 10:45 Pulito (having driven past us farther up the canyon at first) drove up in his Buick, which -- missing the rear seat, leaking coolant, and with half-broken power windows -- brought a wave of nostaligia for The Snow Boat, a 1988 Pontiac Bonneville, the first of several cars I destroyed on my way to the bus. As promised, Pulito seemed, through tales and actions, to be a madman, and he started telling us about his adventures as a backcountry firefighter, and also about the crazy antics of his boss, moonlighting as a slumlord, in the city of brotherly love. La Madre sensed that we were revving up for a late night bullshit session, so she wisely went to sleep in my room with the doors closed, I later crashed on the couch with WGBV and Pulito on the inflatabed. We set up chairs in the shadow of the front of the bus, so as to minimize the effects of passing headlights on the stars overhead. WGBV came back from a vegetation hydration mission to report that a darkened state trooper cruiser was sitting behind the bus. We all freaked out and lowered our voices for a while, until it was determined to be Pulito's Buick (with roof rack). I should also, for the sake of objectivity, mention that the Jack Daniels brought by WGBV as a housewarming gift played an integral part in the evening's course.